


being alive can be so lonely sometimes (but i'm glad to have met you)

by be_cum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Single Parents, Slow Burn, rekindling the old flame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_cum/pseuds/be_cum
Summary: Richelieu is a single parent of two children and three cats. Trying to juggle demanding work, parenting, and his own difficulties, he's slowly losing control over the situation.Treville is a reluctant father of one gloomy son and his entire police station. Everything is perfectly bearable if not for his tardiness and a penchant to ignore things until they explode in his face.They have exactly two things in common: they both are overworked and underslept and they first met twenty years ago.Forced to work together on a school project with their children, Richelieu and Treville bond over the struggles of parenting, sacrifices of compromise, and saying too little and never enough.





	1. 6.25

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago my friend Irene and I were jokingly headcanonning trevilieu modern!au. Things got more and more cliched, more and more ludicrous. Irene and I are both not French, so apologies for abysmal lack of, you know, research and all, please tell if things are abysmally wrong. Self-indulgent at best, cracky at worst (most of times).  
> The beginning for all those modern!au snippets in bric-a-brac.
> 
> This is me, again, posting old stuff instead of sleeping. Because it's 4.30am, title and some bits might change. English is not the first language, yadda-yadda, you know the drill.

**6.25**

Five minutes before the alarm rings.

He squeezes his eyes shut before pressing the balls of his hands against the eyelids, feeling the deep-seated exhaustion in his bones, and gives himself exactly sixty seconds before getting up.

/

**6.30**

He absent-mindedly thinks while brushing his teeth that they need to replace the cold water tap. It’s leaking.

He should nap between the meetings after lunch break with the PM. God knows he’ll need one before the first parents’ meeting this school year.

He should. But he won’t have time, naturally. The fourth Newton’s law of motion: as the hour hand descends to the end of the workday at 6pm, an incident arises with a clockwork precision.

Richelieu leans against the sink and watches foamy residue swirling down the drain. He counts down from thirty to zero until the water on the porcelain of the sink turns from soapy to clear. Thirty more seconds of rest.

Richelieu closes the tap as far as it goes, and it’s still dripping.

At half-past six it’s really, really annoying.

/

**6.45**

A knock on one door. And a muffled “I’m awake, I’m awake!” in return. Obviously, a lie; but it’s nothing new.

A knock on the other. A sharp “Busy.” on the other side.

He sighs. Well. Nothing new either.

/

**7.00  
**

Alarm

Tap to snooze.

/

**7.00**

Feed the cats. Prepare breakfast. In that order (there might have been a few unfortunate incidents). Don’t forget about lunches.

He never forgets about lunches. But. Just in case he does this day.

Fridge is, as expected, nearly empty, excluding four tupperwares in the corner and a sad-looking half a pack of wilted spinach, weighed down by a vine of tomatoes, equally forlorn.

If the PM is going to brag once more about policies he cannot possibly squeeze in this year’s budget, honestly, the obligatory sandwich will end up on his stupid and annoying face.

Right, where was he. Lunch for kids. Breakfast. Feed the cats. In reverse order.

/

**7.15**

Alarm

Tap to snooze.

/

**7.30**

“Breakfast’s ready!”

Milady shows up in the kitchen first. She starts the kettle and rummages around the pantry cupboard, searching for a sacred tub. She scoops the coffee into a French press, careful not to spill anything on the counter. The kettle clicks off and the kitchen fills with dark and earthy smell of morning and chemical alertness.

“No coffee for you,” she says and puts a mug of disgustingly caffeineless beverage in front of him.

“Then pick up Louis after school,” he retorts. “Marie’s going to be busy today. And I know for a fact that hockey doesn’t start until next Tuesday.”

“You are a spoilsport,” Milady huffs in her mug.

Louis comes in ruffled and clutching Thisbe tight to his navy jacket. His clean, new navy jacket. Oh, for Heaven’s sake.

“Let her go and wash your hands. The lint roller is on the sofa.” Richelieu picks at his plate, mostly checking for undercooked or burnt bits. “Your shirt is inside out.”

“Wait,” Milady calls after Louis. “How’s my eyeliner?”

“Er. Okay, I guess.” Louis says without looking, sneaking a slice of toast on his way out. “I mean, you did spend twenty minutes on it.”

Milady scowls and Richelieu smiles thinly.

“You look fine,” he reassures her.

“You always say that.”

“Repetition does not make my statement ring any less true.” He takes a careful sip from his mug and barely stops himself from cringing. Lord. What _is_ in there?

Milady argues that he could allow himself another half an hour of sleep, but he is adamant on a hot meal in the morning and thirty minutes in twenty four hours entirely to himself.

The breakfast passes in comfortable silence. Milady chews absently on her scramble, scrolling the feed on her phone. Louis distractedly picks out all the spinach and arranges it on the side of the plate next to a line of mushy tomatoes.

“Louis, eat.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” He reverts from picking to actually eating.

The mug feels warm against his palm. The cats circle three pair of legs under the table, until Milady gently but firmly pushes them away. He rests his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Five more minutes. Or eight, if he’s lucky and Milady wants another piece of toast.

Feed the cats. Check. Breakfast. Check. Lunch is handed out. Blue box for Louis, red one for Milady. Check. In this exact order.

A clap on his shoulder from Louis, a brisk nod from Milady.

“Thanks.”

“Ta, Dad!”

Usual, but always unexpected.

Armand-Jean Richelieu, a single father of two children. If someone told him that seven years ago, he would laughed at them in their face.

/

**8.07**

“Shit!” He stumbles out of bed and bursts into the opposite room, throwing clothes at the farthest corner. “We are late! Didn’t you set the alarm for seven?”

A mop of unruly dark hair moves slightly and a gruff voice replies, “You did.”

“Athos. Get up. Now.” He resists banging his head against the door frame only because he has no time.

/

**8.15**

“Miss Habsburg has the pills.”

“Mhm.”

“If you remember, please ask. If you don’t, don’t worry. She’ll give them to you anyway.”

“M-m-m.”

“Milady will pick you up.”

“Sure. Thanks for driving. Bye!”

Richelieu sighs. He can only hope Louis just appears not to be listening.

/

**8.24**

“We’ll get coffee at the drive through.”

“Do I have to go? I miss the first day all the time; it’s nothing important.”

“You live in the Treville household now. You do,” Treville shoves his son out of the apartment and locks the door. Then swears under his breath, unlocks it, picks up the car keys, and locks it again.

/

**8.45**

Richelieu parks the car near the entrance. They are a bit too early and the trickle of students is pretty slow, so Milady methodically applies her lip gloss, the brightest colour school regulations allow, and he watches other parents and students pass and go. A year ago she would never do her make-up in front of him and Richelieu considers it a big step up in their relationship.

She gives her upper lip another coating and her armour is done. A thin layer of chemicals separating her from the unforgiving, merciless world.

“People sense fear like sharks sense blood,” he told her once. “Having said that, people are fools, they are susceptible to appearances. No one will notice you are afraid.”

She remembered his lesson down to a T. Her appearance is impeccable.

“Milady,” before she leaves, Richelieu tentatively touches her elbow with his fingertips. When she raises her brows in question, he falters. “Call me. If you need something.”

“I’ll manage,” she replies and neatly shies away from his touch. His hand falls to his side. “See you at home.”

/

**8.57**

“Run,” the car grinds to a halt and Athos rushes out, without wasting time on a hurried goodbye. “Call your mother!”

His phone emits a ringtone that manages to sound annoyed.

“Captain Treville. Yes, morning to you too, Constance. No, I’ll be at the station in about fifteen minutes. I was driving my son to school. Wh— What do you mean, ‘I don’t have a son’? Of course I have a son, he used to stay over every holiday break! Stop messing with me, it’s— HEY! Look where you are going! It’s okay; just some idiot cut me off…”

/

**8.58**

“Idiot.” Richelieu mutters under his breath. He doesn’t deign the insolent driver with a ‘honk’ of his own. “Who parks like that.”

/

**8.58**

“…No, Athos has been living with his mother. Now she got remarried and has no place in her life for a teenage child. What do you mean, ‘I wasn’t married’? Constance, you are ridiculous. Anyway, the kid moved in with me this summer and I assume he’s going to stay. No, you don’t get to meet him. Let him get used to Paris, I don’t want you to traumatise my child. Anyway, hanging up now. I’m heading out.”

Lord, it's going to be a very, very long day.

/

Her classmates meet her with obligatory ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ but quickly let her be, too busy retelling their summer adventures to each other. Some brag as they try to reinstate their social position in class, loud enough so everyone can hear that ‘oh, Monaco was horrendous that time of year’, some gather in small groups of threes and fours because it’s easier to survive. The classroom is an archipelago of human bodies and Milady is the only lone drifting island, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst small group of friends, because she never had the time nor desire to belong.

The school therapist said she should’ve worked on that problem over the summer. Richelieu said, expectedly, nothing on the matter.

Dad has always seemed to know her better than anyone else and it’s unnerving.

The teacher preaches about some random non-curriculum activities, and Milady drifts off to furtively check on some updates on Ovechkin’s Instagram.

“...Get your parents involved as well, this is a perfect opportunity to engage them in school life, and help the community…”

She’s brought out of her reverie when a scruffy-looking guy plops down next to her. Milady raises her eyebrow in question. _No one_ has ever willingly sat next to her.

“We are assigned to work together,” the guy says grimly. “Our parents too, it seems.”

“What?” Milady says flatly.

“Yep,” the guy slouches. “I’m Athos, by the way. In case you haven’t checked our Facebook group chat, and I suspect you haven’t. You’re Anne, right?”

 _Wrong._ She hasn’t been Anne for years and would like very much to keep it that way.

“I’m Anne to no one,” Milady says through her gritted teeth. “Just call me Milady. No need to actually work together. Let’s split up the tasks, email them to each other.”

“It seems that there is, in fact, quite a need,” Athos slides the printed hand-out to her. “A massive research on French history for our library. Video updates have to be uploaded monthly. Two lunches over the week and one meeting on weekends will do nicely.”

“You have the entire thing planned out, haven’t you?” Milady deadpans and deigns to skim through the hand-out. The project is bloody tedious and will take a lot of time she hasn’t got to spare. “Shall I make you coffee and call you ‘Boss’?”

“I’ve heard things about you,” Athos replies coolly and measures her with a too familiar look of prejudiced mistrust. “Thought I should act accordingly. I’m a newcomer here; I don’t want to get a trouble.”

Do wonder, what things, Milady thinks. She feels heat rising up to her cheeks, and she hates it because she always blushes ugly, uneven splotches of dark red, as if overripe cherries burst against her too pale skin. She did not put that MAC mauve blusher just for it to be ruined by that son of a bitch. Heat spreads inside her chest and she’s battle ready.

“Serves you right,” Milady bites. “Why don’t you do the work with others if you want to have pristine reputation of a popular heartthrob with mysterious past to get chicks? Surely you go for that sort of look. Don’t forget your hair product next time, and powder up, for Heaven’s sake.”

Athos straightens and sends her a dirty look. Milady smiles, toothless. She’s hit on a sore point, on the other hand, she always has.

“Don’t know what’s wrong with you or how life managed to hurt you,” he lets out slowly, “but don’t you dare to think that your cheap bully tricks will work on me. We will work on this project, whether you like it or not, our parents too. What afternoons are free?”

_You think I don’t know your like. Boys so worried about their reputation and what others are thinking about them. Does it make you feel so noble for going all condescending and forgiving?_

“Mondays and Wednesdays,” Milady says. Two can play this game. “I have hockey practice on other days. Saturday afternoon is off the charts.”

“Deal,” Athos tinkers with his phone and Milady’s pings. “Added you on Facebook. Wednesday is off this week, so I guess we’ll meet on Sunday. Text me what time is preferable for you, we’ll coordinate.”

Milady swipes her phone and diligently accepts his friend request. Athos huffs and pushes his chair away to leave. School’s pretty much over for today, unless you want to join some clubs or sign up for sports teams.

Milady stands up to leave, her therapist session is only fifteen minutes away, and she wants to grab some water and the vending machine is all the way down the hall, when a small hand lays on her shoulder and she smells an abysmally expensive and floral perfume brushing her hair.

“Just so you know, I have already called dibs on your partner,” Katherine whispers into her ear.

“Please,” Milady huffs. “I, unlike some plebs, have standards.”

Katherine laughs sweetly poisoning every shred of good vibes within the radius of seven miles.

“We are friends, hey,” she nudges Milady with her shoulder paying no attention how Milady discreetly recoils from her touch. “Just making sure it stays that way.”

Milady smiles again.

“Make sure your accessories match your eyeshadows for once in your life. Then you might have a shot,” she says and walks away.

/

**16.03**

He is late. Again.

Things at the station got hectic, then he spilled the coffee on his shirt and had to run off home for a lightning-speed change. And now he is running around this stupendously built school with no idea why he needs to actually wander around the corridors like a bloody idiot and only a vague idea of where he’s supposed to be.

Treville does not want to be engaged with educational process. He wants to sporadically give his son a lift to school, go to bimonthly PTA meetings to nod his head at the right times, and attend his son’s graduation in two years’ time. He does not have time for this inane nonsense for soccer mums who have nothing better to do.

He will nod at the right places, politely refuse to be engaged in any school activities or idiotic project, pull his ‘I’m a Police Captain’ card, smile at those soccer mums the way they want to be smiled at, and take his leave.

Where’s the bloody room?

/

**16.06**

“The new boy’s father, he’s late,” Mrs Rogan says disapprovingly.

Richelieu can feel her high-pitched voice screwing bolts of throbbing pain right into his temples. He wants to take off his jacket and loosen the tie, but in a room full of judgmental pretentious motherly bubbly bunch, the type of being well-off enough to live in the area and order organic soy-gluten-wheat-oil-GMO-free delivery boxes of plasticky-looking produce and not posh enough to send their children to private schools, he can’t afford to take off his armour. _Keep your appearance impeccable, Milady, and no one will know what you feel on the inside._

Richelieu sticks out of the group. For obvious reasons. Being the only single father is stressful. Being the father of an adopted girl with _character_ is migraine-inducing.

“I’m sure there’s a viable reason for that. It’s dreadfully inconvenient time for the meeting, I had to take a day off from work, you know.”

“Many of us have to drive our children to practices after this! And isn’t child’s education of paramount importance, Cecile?”

 _Unfortunately, not as paramount as talking some sense into your PM_ , Richelieu thinks grimly. Something, Marie’s endless text reminding him, he should be doing at this exact moment.

“Mrs Rogan,” Richelieu interrupts. “Cecile is right. Not everyone can afford to take a day off or leave the office early, so please do me a colossal favour, and don’t discuss the meeting with PTA behind my back next time.”

Mrs Rogan blushes deep red and bristles with indignation.

Richelieu sighs. Milady is going to be very cross (‘pissed’, his perfectionist mind corrects him) that she’ll have to take Louis to his ballet class and wait for him there. The two get along in a weird protective and rapport kind of way, but Milady detests all kinds of interactions with mothers of any sorts, which is a relief since she’s not going to get one in a foreseeable future (‘ever’, his perfectionist mind corrects him), but is also very concerning since Milady seems to detest all kinds of interaction in general that don’t include her family. Richelieu isn’t exactly outgoing himself, but Milady is evidently lonely and could use a friend, hell, an acquaintance that’s not Richelieu, Louis or Marie.

“We’ll wait for another ten minutes, and then we’ll start.” Richelieu says.

“What? It’s his problem!”

“Another ten minutes, and then we’ll start,” Richelieu repeats in a voice he uses for inept cabinet ministers, which are all of them.

May be he’ll even manage to get a power-nap with his eyes opened in these ten minutes. He missed lunch with the PM because of a blunder by one of the senior advisers, didn’t have time to close his eyes or have lunch, and now he feels tired (not news, that shouldn’t even be addressed), vaguely hungry (Marie’s failed attempt to feed him chocolate muffin before his leave is to blame), and sick (three hours of sleep in the same number of days would do the trick).

/

**16.10**

Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

Stupid project he only read about during ten minutes long lunch break because of some mass-email reminding, bloody _reminding_ , about the discussion of some compulsory school project for both students and parents.

The language of the email was so posh-straight-out-of-Sorbonne it made Treville roll his eyes.

/

**16.14**

“Right,” Richelieu clears his throat and the ambient chatter stutters to a halt. “He’ll just have to catch up as we go, then. First, thank you for coming on such short notice—”

Cecile shoots Mrs Rogan a dirty look.

“And thank you for participating in school’s project,” _‘as if we had an actual choice’_ , Cecile mutters, “aimed at raising school’s scientific research profile and encouraging the local community to sign up for open education courses.”

In other words, because Richelieu did not spend two decades in politics not to have the ability to read between the lines, _we want to be like very top posh schools but have neither resources nor desire to put any effort into it, so we will bully our pupils and their parents to do it for us_.

“I really think it should be like our Science Fair,” Mrs Rogan objects. “Like a competition. It would motivate the children to do better.”

 _Marie will kill me, if I don’t stay late_ , Richelieu thinks. _Louis will be upset if I do_. _And if I take work home to do at night, I will probably throw up tomorrow, because it’s been five days on fifteen hours of sleep and I can’t deal with cabinet ministers in this state._

“It won’t motivate _me_ ,” retorts Eloise. “Parents are also forced to do this, remember.”

“As Romans would have said, ‘a bad parent never has a good child’.” Mrs Rogan replies sweetly, and if eyeballs could shoot daggers, hers would.

“If I were you—”

For goodness’ sake.

“Ladies,” Richelieu says loudly, without looking up from his notes. “Please, focus. So, as it was mentioned in the email and the print-outs—”

The door bangs open and a man rushes into the room, panting.

“Sorry,” he wheezes. “The traffic, you know. First day here, couldn’t find the room number.”

“Don’t worry, Mr…” Richelieu checks the contact list. “Treville. We’ve just started, please do take a seat.” He raises his head. “As I was saying—”

Mr Treville’s eyes are very blue.

And Richelieu recognises the man instantly, despite a very fleeting acquaintance and a very long time that has passed.

“You _bastard_ ,” Richelieu hisses indignantly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good ol’ cliffhanger
> 
> Ovechkin is the only hockey-player that I know. I _think_ he does have an Instagram.  
>  Milady’s MAC blusher is Mocha, you can fight me on this. My girl slays that “My eyeliner will cut every single motherfucker into shreds” aesthetic.


	2. 23.48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be fooled by the frequency of updates, I'm a devious bastard that hibernates 11 months out of 12.
> 
> Every single ficwriter out there: "Why can't they just fall in the bed and fuck."

**1980s**

**23.48**

The party wasn’t in full swing just yet. The DJ was tinkering with his equipment; the regulars were considering either getting another drink or catching the last bus home.

Armand was neither. He sat uncomfortably on the stool, legs too long for the foot rest and too short for the floor. He was clutching his pint of beer, half-finished, and was considering either getting absolutely plastered or joining his friends to do damage control.

It had really started in such a clichéd and conventional way that Armand was almost ashamed of himself. A group of not really friends trying something new. Everyone was game, Armand wasn’t. Armand didn’t mind going out for a few hours, however doing lines in a dingy toilet and then have a high-induced orgy in the same facility was just a bit overdoing it for his standards.

He hated these kinds of night. You wanted to have fun and not go home, but having fun on your own required either Dutch courage the consequences of which he didn’t want to deal with come morning, or a group of three friends who currently occupied a toilet cubicle for one.

Armand gulped down his beer and ordered a set of shots. There was a good thing about doing shots completely alone. You looked like you had a shit day, got dumped or got fired; no one tried to bother you, no girls asked to buy them a drink. And by the time you had finished, alcohol level in your blood got to the point of not giving a single flying fuck.

**00.13**

The dude was going at a spectacular speed. Jean had to give him credit; he was downing those shots like a champion. Must’ve had a really shit day.

Perfect. Match made in vodka-intoxicated, neon-lit, AC/DC-blessed Heaven.

When the dude was on his fourth, Jean put down his empty glass and walked towards the counter, ordering a double for himself.

“Not sharin’,” the dude mumbled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Jean vowed and saluted with his own glass. “Shit day, was it?”

“Yes, and this,” the dude pointed at the emptied shots, “is a non-verbal message translating into ‘don’t bother me’.”

“I wouldn’t, I really wouldn’t, but,” Jean sipped on his drink and winced. “You are getting absolutely plastered, and it just happens to be exactly what I need.”

The dude put down his shot with a clank and turned round to face him. He was handsome, Jean thought, in an abstract, if-you-are-tipsy-and-the-lighting-is-bad kind of way that only happened in night clubs. Dark hair, pale skin, expressive eyebrows raised in question. The alcohol had kicked in, so there was a drunk flush to his cheeks and sheen of sweat on his forehead. Not a regular, Jean would’ve remembered him.

“See the group over there?” Jean prompted.

“Oh,” the dude looked almost disappointed. “You need the ‘bros before hoes’ diversion.”

“Well… More like the ‘random drunk dude before bros’ kind of diversion.” Jean nodded at the neat row of empty glasses. “You are just my man in the hour of need. Haven’t caught your name, though.”

“Because I haven’t given it to you,” the dude rolled his eyes at the deliberately corny line. “Armand.”

“Great,” Jean furtively looked behind his shoulder. “Armand, if you’d be so kind to act as absolutely pissed and in need of urgent evacuation, I’ll be much obliged.”

“I might want to stay here, you know,” Armand said.

“You are wearing suit trousers and you didn’t even roll your sleeves. For some reason I doubt that you were downing those shots because you were having a grand time.”

Armand relented.

“Fine. I was ditched by my friends who are doing coke at the bathroom.”

“Ha, so that’s why I couldn’t get in there for the past thirty minutes,” Jean mused in a serious voice.

Armand laughed. It was a short, hearty laugh of a person who didn’t really laugh very often, not because he couldn’t, but because he never got the opportunity to. Good laugh, in Jean’s books.

“Someone’s coming for you,” Armand noted and Jean could only bless male to male solidarity, for he slumped on the counter and made a vaguely miserable sound.

“Mate, the hell‘ve y’been? We’ve been lookin’ for you,” Belgard slurred. “Gettin’ drunk by y’self? Cheatin’.”

“That’s my schoolmate, we’ve just been catching up,” Jean said pointing at Armand. “Oh, dude, you look shit! Do you need a lift home?”

Armand made a vague affirmative sound and waved his hand. This dude was certainly no actor, but if he was being honest, neither was Jean but needs must.

“Sur’ly he came with s’meone?” Belgard said unaffected. “Mate, don’t y’think ab’t it. Been plannin’ the night out for ages.”

“Belgard, I’m really sorry,” Jean replied apologetically hauling up Armand’s body that had approximately five hundred more bones than strictly necessary. “Can’t leave him like that. I’ll go next time, promise. See you guys around, and tell everybody I’m sorry, okay?”

He shoved his unfinished drink at Belgard and left.

/

“Your elbows are hella pointy,” Jean noticed once they had finished their walk in a drunken heap of limbs.

“Ergonomics.” Armand swayed. “Oh, now I’m really starting to feel it.”

“Yeah, just... sit down here for a bit,” Jean led him to the bench and sat the guy down.

“The look of a Good Samaritan doesn’t fit you.”

“Well, I did drag you out when you were seemingly having a blast at those vodka shots, so,” Jean shrugged. “At least I could hang out with you, see that you don’t choke on your vomit.”

“How kind.” Armand slouched on the bench and straightened his feet moaning positively obscenely in relief. “Oh, good. The bar stools over there? Abomination.”

“You are very particular,” Jean chuckled. And to his surprise admitted that he didn’t mind. The dude was funny in a weird and reserved kind of way without even realising it. Not a bad company to spend a Saturday’s night with.

“So,” Jean lit a cigarette and offered one to Armand. “What’s your deal? Some intense friends you’ve got.”

Armand breathed out the smoke thoughtfully. Not a guy to spill the beans in a drunken camaraderie either. The hell blokes like him were doing at the clubs anyway?

“Not friends, not really.” Armand finally said. “I don’t really do—”

“Lines?”

“People.” Armand amended, “well, quite the contrary, fine, I do socialise with people. I just don’t like it.”

“Never got the ‘only hang out with the right people with connections’ thing you’ve got at the University,” Jean shook his head. “But if that’s fine by you, I really don’t care.”

“Well, what’s _your_ deal, then?” Armand said bitingly. “If you’d rather smoke a fag on a bench with some drunk stranger rather than hang out with your friends?”

“No need to be an arse.” Jean turned his head towards a slight breeze. July is a horribly humid and hot even at nightfall. “I don’t know, same thing as you, I guess. As friends go, they are a good bunch, we’ve been together in the Academy since the first day. But, I think, there are just those friends who demand your attention at all times? They are a bit too much.”

An honest response elicited a very strange reaction. Armand hummed thoughtfully and hid his surprise behind a drag of his cigarette.

“I study Political Science and theology,” Armand said at last. “I’m of no help where philosophy is concerned.”

“And I thought you were a decent human being,” Jean laughed. “What religion has to say on the matter then?”

Armand studied his cigarette stub for a moment, before replying, “Proverbs 13:20. Walk with the wise and become wise, for a companion of fools suffers harm.”

“Now you insulted my friends,” Jean stated. “I take the ‘decent human being’ straight back.”

“I’m drunk, I don’t do charming when I’m drunk,” Armand huffed.

Jean rolled his eyes. The guy was annoying. In a frustrating kind of way that makes you bristle and start arguing again instead of walking away like a mature person. Under different circumstance, they wouldn’t have got on. In fact, they weren’t now.

“Don’t seem a type to do charming at all.”

“I don’t do charming with people who drag me out and then start to insult me,” Armand reiterated.

“Arsehole” 

“It has been said.” Armand breathed out. “You, on the other head, are a different story entirely.”

“You don’t know me at all.” Jean replied curtly.

“Oh, no. I know your type. The hot-headed, bluff and honest type that mistake stupidity and inconvenience for decorum.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Armand daintily put out his cigarette and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Armand shook his head dramatically and stood up.

Jean paused. The conversation suddenly went off-kilter.

“That’s not what I meant.” Jean said.

“Oh, really?” Armand asked innocently. Jean relented. Well, perhaps he meant it a little. Given the right context.

Fucking a binge-drunken complete stranger was the most wrong context imaginable.

Come to think about it, he was kind of handsome. In a one-night-stand-had-never-hurt-no-one kind of way. Besides, Jean couldn’t lie to himself, he didn’t exactly mean it but the implication was on the table. In a we-both-considered-it kind of way.

“Thought so,” Armand said, apparently having read something written across Jean’s face, and started walking.

“What makes you think that I won’t ditch you to do lines in a dingy bathroom?” Jean called after him.

Armand turned round and smiled. In a hazy street lights he looked like an inebriated carnivore maniacal stick-insect. In short, absolutely infuriating.

“Because you were in a club full of people. But you came to _me_ , of all friendly and laid-back sorts back there. I don’t study Politics Science just for leisure.”

And Jean, having stubbed his cigarette rather forcefully, followed.

/

The room was exactly what you would expect from accommodations that rented rooms for twenty-five-in-cash-a-night.

Armand didn’t have time to admire the interior, however, because as soon as he went through the door, he immediately found himself pressed against it.

He never expected this to happen. One minute he was getting drunk and another he was flirting with a blue-eyed pain in the arse, and he missed how he got from point A to point B. Armand had meant to politely refuse and get back to doing shots, until he hadn’t, and he still had no clue about how it all boiled down to a hot body pressed against his, strong hands settled on his hips

“For someone who didn’t mean the evening to end that way, you are surprisingly eager,” he gasped when he felt a wet mouth trailing down his neck.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Jean asked and shut him up in the most ancient and efficient way human kind had ever had to offer.

/

**Now**

**16.15**

Treville recognises him instantly, the moment he opens his mouth.

A twenty-year aged Armand is staring at him with enormously big eyes and a lined face of utter indignation and shock. The next second the moment is gone, and in front of him sits a perfectly composed man with a ramrod-straight back and an absent, detached air of a stranger to him.

“Ar—” he starts as other parents exchange curious looks.

Cecile raises her eyebrows in an international gossipers’ language that vaguely translates into _“What’s going on?”_

“Richelieu,” he interrupts going back to his notes. “Ladies, this is Mr Treville, Athos’ father. Mr Treville, there’s a sit for you, with a name tag.

“Captain, actually,” Treville manages to get out as he sits on his designated chair.

“Oh,” Armand misses a bit and makes a mark on the paper pad. “I’m very sorry, you should have specified.”

“Nice to meet you, Captain,” a slick-looking mum sing-songs. He _does not_ smiles at her the way she wants to be smiled at.

“As I was saying,” Ar— Richelieu presses in an unmistaken tone of authority, loosening his tie a little bit. “This project is about creating educational courses for local community and research. Each pair has a course that needs to be completed by the end of the school year and presented at the conference. And to make it more entertaining for the children,” Richelieu frowns with barely hidden derision, “A thing called ‘vlogging’ is propositioned as means to keep track of the progress.”

/

**1980s**

**2.43**

“Police Academy, huh?” Armand said thoughtfully running absent circles on Jean’s shoulder.

“Sorbonne, huh?” He shot back.

The sweat was cooling off on their skin bringing infinitesimal relief in the humid room. They mostly just felt sticky and hot, but going to the shower was yet a far-fetched thought for come morning.

Armand gave a reverberating laugh of his that made Jean’s insides simmer with swelling heat.

“Your friends are shit,” Jean said out of the blue.

Armand’s fingers stilled only finishing half-circle on Jean’s skin.

“They are not really my friends,” he said slowly. “Their families are all in politics. I want them to notice me. Their profit is that I’m smart and get them out of trouble. And they are not that bad. Privileged and stupid, but there’s nothing more to them.”

“That’s a crap friendship,” Jean surmised.

“It is,” Armand didn’t deny it. “But it will get me to places, and this is what I want in the long run. What about yours, then? Since we have succumbed to the carnal act of pillow-talk anyway.”

For Jean it was far simpler than that.

“They do this sort of thing all the time,” Jean answered. “They drag me along with them. I’m not very much into partying on a weekly basis. Don’t take me wrong, we are tight and have each other’s backs, but…” he trailed off because he didn’t know what to say. They were his best friends and he was moaning about how he didn’t feel like it to a stranger.

“You are different.” Armand finished.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Jean glanced at the clock. In a couple of hours the night would be up; they’d have to get up, dress, say their awkward goodbyes and never meet again.

He didn’t want this night to end like that. He didn’t want this night to end at all.

“I’d like to take you out some day,” Jean said. “A pint or something. If you are up to it, that is.”

Armand was quiet for a moment, not long enough for Jean to worry. Just thinking about it, Jean was guessing.

“Alright,” Armand said.                                                                                                        

/

**Now**

**16.48**

“Questions?” Richelieu asks politely in a tone that bears absolutely no questions.

“Samara and Fleur are friends, why were they split up?” A woman with a name tag ‘Mr Baudin’ asks. Evidently, Mr Baudin couldn’t make it.

“School therapist thinks it’s a good idea for teenagers to talk to pupils out of their usual circle of friends,” Richelieu says monotonously. “Nothing could be done, I’m afraid. I don’t think that Fleur and Sylvie don’t get on.”

“My daughter will not work with Anne, Richelieu,” ‘Mrs Rogan’ name tag owner butts in. “I don’t care about what that therapist says; my girl will not work with her.”

Richelieu clenches his fist tightly and then cracks his fingers loudly, one at a time. Mrs Rogan winces at the sound. He stares her down with the most disdainful glare he can afford himself at this situation.

“How fortunate then, Mrs Rogan,” Richelieu says coldly. “My daughter and I are working with Captain Treville and Athos.”

Treville felt very similarly when he got the short end of the straw back in the days when he was a green, eager-faced Detective and was put on a patrol duty with Des Essarts.

Except, now he got the dwarf end of the stick in the world of short ends of the stick. The size for new-borns.

“Wait,” Treville interrupts. “So… you are not the teacher?”

Richelieu tightens his tie back in place.

“What made you think I am, Captain?” He asks smoothly.

“Well.” Treville waves his hand. _I just conveniently blocked out the most unwanted outcome that by a treacherous feat of Murphy’s Law turned out to be the case._ “You did give out the instructions about this stup— student project.”

Mrs Rogan not so inaudibly chuckles and Richelieu works his throat.

“No, this is not a PTA meeting, Captain Treville. It’s a very detached from teachers’ supervision project and the parents and the students work directly with the school board,” Richelieu gives all the information Treville doesn't care about. “I know you are new here, the rest of us have been acquainted with one another for the past few years, but we do have a newsletter. You should check your inbox.”

Eloise throws her fellow mums a look and shakes her head. _“Roasted!”_

“Is that all?” Richelieu asks and checks his phone. “If so, please excuse me. I’ve got to head back to work. Captain Treville? A moment of your time, if you don’t mind.”

/

**1980s**

**5.52**

“Shit!” Jean sat up abruptly and disrupted the sheets.

Armand turned on his side and Jean was immediately distracted by the smooth pale expanse of his skin. Armand smirked. The bastard: that was his devious plan all along. Seeing that Jean wasn’t getting back to bed for another round, Armand instantaneously dropped his flirtatious act and sat up too, reaching out for strewn clothes.

Jean stilled. Something was wrong.

“Hey,” he covered Armand’s hand with his own. “What is it?”

Armand carefully extricated his fingers from his grasp and carried on looking for his shirt.

“Jean, I know what one night stand entails,” he shrugged. “No need to reiterate; I don’t take seriously what’s been said during heated moments.”

“No, that wasn’t—” Jean took Armand’s face in his hands, forcing him to look up. “What I said earlier, I meant it, okay? I need to go home before my flatmates come back, let them know that I wasn’t killed or maimed during their night out, and then I’ll be free as a bird. Deal?”

Armand scrutinized him with an inquisitive gaze before relenting and giving in with a quiet sigh.

“Why?” he finally asked in a strained voice.

“I don’t know,” Jean answered truthfully. “You are a posh, unscrupulous, ambitious arsehole. You have sixteen hundred elbows.”

Armand kicked him under the ribs, and he nipped at his earlobe in retaliation until Armand grew pliant again in his arms.

“Bluff and honest man of action,” he deadpanned. “I never stood a chance.”

“Naturally,” Jean smirked against his dark curls.

/

**Now**

**16.48**

“Errr,” Treville hesitates once the door shuts close behind them. “Hello?”

“Afternoon to you too,” Richelieu says reservedly. “I suggest we compare our schedules, since we are both already here. There should be one meeting for parents and children per week; you evidently work full-time, so do I. I’m afraid we are not available on Saturdays, but Sundays, maybe? You can pick the time, since we can’t go on Saturdays—”

“Richelieu,” Treville cut through. “Sunday works, unless it’s earlier than noon.”

“I apologise for my outburst,” Richelieu adds reluctantly, evidently vexed at himself. “I… I didn’t expect that. That was uncalled for.” He prims his lips.

Treville chuckles.

“Well, _you_ bastard,” he retorts. “You gave me a fucking STI!”

Richelieu’s hands darts towards his lower lip and Treville certainly does not follow the motion and stares resolutely at Richelieu’s eyes.

“I must have had a cold sore.” He actually has a gall to _blush_. “And we…”

“Kissed,” Treville rolls his eyes. “Yes. You’re a bastard; I forgive you for giving me herpes. I do thank you for keeping it away from nether regions twenty years ago.”

“Sorry,” Richelieu falters. “I should compensate you for—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Treville interrupts. “That doesn’t matter. I was going apologise for. Well. As you aptly said, for being a bastard too.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Richelieu says quickly.

Treville frowns.

“Well, it _does_ , since you’ve been thinking I’m some kind of a wanker who doesn’t keep his promises and throws people aside like soiled paper towels.”

“Now I’m not though,” Richelieu says. “Doesn’t matter, really. It’s a coincidence that we met, funny one at that. Nothing to talk about.”

“I just wanted to explain—”

“Oh, come on,” Richelieu huffs. “It’s been twenty years. A one-off. Not going claim that it didn’t sting my pride back then, but I think our shared fleeting past is neither here nor there. I’d rather focus on getting over this thing since we are forced to do it.”

“Good.” Treville licks his lips. “Yes. You’re right. Glad we are on the same page.”

“We are,” Richelieu affirms.

Treville doesn’t really know what page it is. Or chapter. Or, come to think of it, book.

“Captaincy looks good on you,” Richelieu says suddenly. At Treville’s startled look, he points his chin at Treville’s shirt. “Police, I mean.”

“Um, thanks?” Treville fumbles for the right words but they all fall flat. “You too. You look… good.”

Richelieu rubs the fold of his red trench coat draped across his arm as if the motion itself will gloss over the uncomfortable silence that settled between them.

 “…See you on Sunday, then.” Treville offers seeing no other way to remove himself from this awkward conversation.

“See you,” Richelieu gives him a tight smile and leaves.

 

* * *

 

**1980s**

**7.03**

“Buddy!” De Foix fell over the threshold. “We thought you’d be sleeping at this hour.”

“Nah, couldn’t stay in bed,” Jean had been home for all fifteen minutes, before those two rascals fell through the door, and had only managed to quickly shower under a tepid spray and change.

“Shotgun the shower!” Belgard shouted and shut the door closed in case anyone wanted to override the shotgun rule.

Jean rolled his neck from side to side feeling the vertebrae pop. His body felt pleasantly sore, as it always did after a good shag. His ribs faintly complained about pointy elbows but it was mostly a fond psychosomatic memory. He thought of a secret hidden safely in the back pocket of his jeans and smiled to himself. It was July morning; the heat hadn’t yet reached unbearable levels and was just on the side of being perfect as it lit through half-lowered flimsy curtains. A good morning, in Jean’s books.

A switch clicked off and the washer came to whirring life. De Foix made his way into the bathroom. He’d just have to drink coffee to keep him going before he went out again. It was too early for a pint, but breakfast certainly counted as ‘taking someone out’.

Jean stood over a tiny hob waiting for his coffee to brew revelling at the blessedly cool tiled floor beneath his soles, the way his body seemed to thrum with energy despite a sleepless and vigorously active night. He should catch a few hours of sleep, he really should, but it was a blissful weekend morning, the weather was on a cusp of being perfect and not yet scorching hot. Jean couldn’t afford to waste a single moment of it.

“Popped your jeans with mine too, mate,” Belgard clapped him on the shoulder as he moved past him. “Is there enough coffee for—”

Jean let go of the pot handle to face him.

“You fucking _what_?” Jean asked.

“Whoa, calm down, mate,” Belgard said absent-mindedly reaching into the empty cupboard in search of something edible. “Turned on the washing machine and threw your stuff with mine, you are welcome, by the way.”

“No,” Jean pushed him aside and darted into the corridor where the decrepit culprit was mechanically chewing on dirty items of clothing and one crucial piece of paper. “For fuck’s sake! You didn’t—”

He yanked the door opened and was showered with scalding soap water. A few books fell off the top and joined a rapidly growing pool of hot water on the floor.

“Shit,” Jean rummaged sopping pile of clothes looking for his pair of jeans. “Fuck!”

“Mate, the hell are you doing?” Belgard looked out of the kitchenette. “Blimey, Treville, are you mental?! The librarian will lynch me for these books!”

Jean didn’t even stoop to flip him a finger, as he reached into the back pocket of his half-washed trousers.

The cursive was calligraphic and precise despite the blunt stub of cheap pencil it was written in. Two lines, an address that would have taken him to the other side of Paris and the string of numbers, were slid inside of his back pocket, his body pressed against another, hot and lean, smiling lips brushing the shadow of his morning stubble.

“I need to return them by the thirtieth—”

Two lines written on a thin edge ripped from a newspaper margin were now a greyish sopping ball of mess on Jean’s hand, after he scraped their remnants out of the pocket.

“Nothing’s wrong with your fucking books,” Jean said to Belgard resignedly and slumped against the washer.

“Everything’s alright?” De Foix shouted from the shower. “Thought I heard the ruckus.”

The coffee happily bubbled over, unattended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRACTICE SAFE SEX, CHILDREN. I'M VERY SERIOUS.
> 
> This entire modern!au was a brainchild of my friend Irene and your humble servant as we were chatting about Richelieu irl. And Irene was like: "The dude had been a real slag if he had syphilis, hadn't he?" I was like "Have you seen him when he was young though." And Irene was like: "Bitch, modern!au be like they meet 20 years later after the one night stand, Richelieu is all 'you didn't call me back, you fucker!' Treville is all 'you gave me STI, you bitch!' and it's raving 80s and Treville looks like Hugo Speer from that Full Monty movie."  
> I was laughing so hard the lemonade got into my nose, and the thought never fails to make me laugh ever since. I'm sorry, but it had to be done, I had to make a tribute to that fine afternoon. the issue will never appear again in the fic. But in real world, take it seriously.
> 
> The type 1 strain of herpes simplex virus causes primarily mouth, throat, face, eye, and central nervous system infections. It's usually acquired in childhood. Herpes is contracted through direct contact with an active lesion or body fluid of an infected person. Basically it's cold sores that break out when you are sick. If that cold sore doesn't touch anything, it's not contagious.
> 
> Richelieu's not friends, I mean, I can't resist historical namedropping, and if you think Concini, Galigai and Medici didn't have threesome in 17th century, I have news for you.
> 
> Richelieu quotes "The Book of Proverbs", the second book of the third section of the Hebrew Bible and a book of the Christian Old Testament.


	3. 9.00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for more history nerding.

**9.00**

“Okay, detectives,” Treville walks into the briefing room. “Let's get cracking. The sooner we start the brief, the sooner it ends.”

His squad exchange dark looks.

“It just means the sooner we head out, sir.” Mousqueton grumbled. “And it’s pouring outside. Planchet’s wellies are more water than wellies at this point.”

“Well,” Treville takes a sip from his coffee. “More legwork for you, I’m afraid.”

“Cold, sir.” Planchet admonishes.

“Indeed,” Treville drags a nearby chair and plonks himself on it. “And it’s only early September. But, really, enough of the chitchat. Planchet, brief us on the Bonnaire’s human trafficking case.”

Planchet stands up from his seat and takes the place at the front. He’s a good copper: intelligent, hard-working, brave. Treville likes him.

“There’s been a surge of activity in the hotel where he’s been spotted numerous times over past months. We got the warrant to search the place.”

“Good.” Treville hums approvingly. “Take Grimaud and Andre.”

“Sweet.” Planchet walks back and high-fives Grimaud on his way.

“Bazin, what’s the progress with Allard’s murders?” Treville continues.

“Well, sir, in short – there’s no progress.” Bazin replies placidly.

Treville sighs and valiantly restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

“Great job, Bazin,” he says. “So, let me paraphrase: what’s the regress with Allard’s murders?”

“I have to correct you, Captain, there has been no regress.”

_ ‘Why haven’t I fired him yet?’ _ Treville asks himself.  _ ‘He wasn’t even meant to be in my squad.’ _

“Bazin, don’t test my patience,” he says and pointedly slurps his coffee.

“The Slurp,” Planchet whispers, thinking that Treville is not listening. “Deep waters, Baz, deep waters.”

“We still interrogate the suspects and gather witness statements,” Bazin finally deigns to say. “The forensics hasn’t brought back the results from the crime scene, no weapon.”

“Call the lab and hurry them up.” Treville says. “Look for the weapon.”

“That’s what you’ve told me to do the last time, sir,” Bazin says serenely.

“Yes, and I do love repeating myself, it’s proven itself to be so fruitful,” Treville replies sarcastically. “Pull yourself together, Bazin, because if you let the trail get cold, we’ll never pin the murders on that bastard.”

“Roger that, sir,” Bazin gathers his folders and returns to his place.

“Okay, listen up,” Treville stands. “You need a reminder, judging by Bazin and his exemplary stability of absence of any kind of progress. Budget cuts are on horizon, so if you don’t want any redundancies in our squad, you better get your act together. Dismissed.”

“You came to the brief only to sip your coffee, didn’t you, Captain?”

“Did I or didn’t I, that is the question,” Treville shoots back cryptically on his way out.

/

**12.47**

“You now have a regular Sunday brunch with whom?” Constance asks as she walks into his office.

“Constance, are these for signing, or is it just a bunch of colourful paper?” Treville cuts to the chase.

“It’s usually both, sir,” she says and sits on the chair. “Come on, Captain. Spill the beans.”

“Since when are you so interested in my personal life?” Treville inquires. “Which, as the name suggests, is personal?”

“I deduced,” Constance says proudly. “I’ve been working here for ages; I’ve picked up on your tricks.”

“Constance, you’ve been working as a civilian administrator for six months,” Treville sighs.

“These two are not mutually exclusive.”

Treville calculates the amount of time it would take to make Constance drop the subject and decides against it.

“It’s a school project. For my son. Pupils and their parents have to meet every week for some…” Treville waves his arms, “I don’t even know, for something, I guess.”

“Can’t you give it a pass?”

“What? No,” Treville shakes his head. “I mean, I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want Athos to get in trouble, so—”

Constance suddenly smiles.

“What?” Treville says suspiciously.

“Nothing,” she jumps off the seat and makes her way out of his office.

“What is it?” Treville calls after her louder.

“It’s good that you are trying,” Constance shrugs. “Lunch at that small place round the corner in fifteen?”

“Nope, my turn to pick the place. The sandwiches.”

“Aw, spoilsport, Captain,” and the door clicks shut behind her.

/

**18.17**

“MP is here for you,” Marie opens a crack in the door, poking her head in.

Richelieu looks at the trench coat he just took off the hanger and back to his secretary.

“My work day ended,” he checks with the watch, “seventeen minutes ago.”

“It’s important,” says she apologetically. She notices that he doesn’t even ask her to specify which one.

“The campaign discussion can wait until Monday,” Richelieu says.

“They are already writing the speech for the party conference.”

The Amiens conference is on  _ Monday _ .

“I can’t,” Richelieu says, hanging his coat back.

“Well…” Marie makes a non-committal sound.

“It’s Saturday anyway,” Richelieu continues. “No sane people work on Saturdays, especially at night.”

“You are right,” she moves away to let him out. “This day is very important, you deserve a break.” 

“I shouldn’t have even been in on Saturday,” Richelieu utters under his breath as he walks down the corridor.

“Maybe you’ll get it over with quickly,” Marie gives him a small smile. “You’ll still be on time for dinner.”

“Maybe,” he lies and walks on to rightfully blame the rest of the office for his ruined day.

/

**19.08**

“Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.”

Milady looks at Louis sympathetically.

“Maybe.”

“We should call him again,” he says and picks up the phone.

“It’s probably on silent,” she reasons. “If it’s out of charge, we would’ve been redirected to voicemail.”

/

**19.12**

“ — And I’m saying that this is not the time for this,” Richelieu snaps as politely as he can.

The phone won’t stop vibrating. His son is nothing but very insistent.

Richelieu presses the button until the screen turns black.

/

**19.30**

“Voicemail,” Louis hangs up and drops the phone on the sofa.

“Ran out of battery,” Milady says. “Told you.”

“I mean, he wouldn’t, would he?” Louis’ shoulders dropped.

Milady opens her mouth and closes it almost immediately.

“Nah,” she lies brightly. “Course he wouldn’t.”

/

**19.48**

“So, how’s it going?”

Athos chews on his bite of pasta thoughtfully. Treville reckons that it’s mostly to play for time, not because he’s particularly fond of the taste. Treville isn’t a particularly good cook unlike his ex, but at least Athos isn’t eating junk food. Most of the times.

“Alright,” Athos finally says. “Just... hate that stupid project. Like we have nothing else to do. And there’s lots to do.”

“Well, it’s just a brunch once a week,” Treville says reproachfully. “How bad could it be?”

“You haven’t met my partner,” Athos says darkly. “Milady or whatever. She’s a nightmare.”

“I’ve met her father, though,” Treville replies.

“Is he an arsehole too?”

“Oi,” Treville nudges him under the table. “Don’t judge people before you’ve met them. And mind your language,” he adds after missing a beat. “No, he’s fine. Very... uptight, I guess.”

“Well, I don’t like her,” Athos says resolutely. “And it’s only a brunch for you, but I have to endure two lunches with her too.”

“Come on, kid. I’m sure she’s not that bad.” Treville smiles. “Did you call your mother?”

Athos instantly becomes very interested in the contents of his plate.

Treville sighs and rubs his eyebrow.

“Come on. It’s been three weeks since you’ve moved.”

“I forgot,” Athos grumbled reluctantly. “School’s busy. And I signed up for a fencing class.”

“I don't care, Athos. She's your mother.” Treville says with exasperation. “You should call her. She worries.”

“Do  _ you  _ talk to her?” Athos puts down his fork with half-eaten pasta on it.

“Yes, actually,” Treville says pointedly. “And she asks why her son hasn’t called her since August.”

“I don’t want to interrupt her in the middle of her canoodling session and be all grossed out.” Athos pushes his plate away.

Treville rubs his face and sighs.  _ ‘Here we go again.’ _ And… Canoodling? Is his son a sixty-eight year old lady?

“Athos, we’ve been over this a million times…” His ex-wife would probably say something along the lines of  _ ‘Oi, come back, young man. You don’t speak with your parent in this tone.’  _ Or something equally parental. 

“I’m busy,” Athos says, pulling his trusty ‘top-of-the-class-student’ card. “School in Paris is harder,” he adds with vitriol.

Athos is a teenager — a half-formed human with his own opinions and judgements, an age when an ice-cream cone and a lolly won’t fix anything. Treville is out of his depth. If Athos was an adolescent delinquent, he’d know what to do: call the guardian, slap some handcuffs on. Thankfully, his son wasn’t, but at least Treville would have a protocol to check with. Parenting a stubborn teenager, as it turned out, does not include a manual.

She and him, they meant to muddle through together. Figuring it all out. 

“Your mum only wants what’s best for you.” And he genuinely believes she does. And he can’t blame her for wanting a happy and fulfilling relationship for once, he just can’t understand why Athos has to be put on a back burner.

Well, he can because he was married to her. He just can’t explain it to his moody teenage son.

The chair legs scrape against the tiled floor with a screeching sound as Athos moves from his sit.

“You know what, I have maths prep to do due tomorrow, so…” Athos dumps the remainder of dinner into a bin and sticks his plate into a dishwasher. “No time to spare.”

_ ‘How the fuck am I going to raise this kid and how the fuck I got myself into this. And _ _ —’ _

“Wait!” Treville cranes his neck, but only to see half of his son’s head disappearing into the hallway. “ _ Fencing class _ ?”

/

**21.37**

“It’s him!”

“Pizza time!” Marie-Madeleine chirps brightly, valiantly ignoring Louis’ crestfallen face.

“Yum.” Milady takes the boxes from her, exchanging understanding looks. “Come on, kiddo. The pizza won’t eat itself.”

/

**23.28**

“You’re late.”

An understatement.

The cats haven’t meowed reproachfully on his return. Louis must have boarded them in his room. Richelieu feels guilty. He’s done it so many times, the feeling lost its edge long ago. But today, he feels that he crossed the line.

“I know,” the coat finds its way on the hanger, the shores are tucked into their rightful place. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“It’s half past eleven,” Milady said in indignant disdain. 

“You know what I’d give to be asleep at half past eleven?” Richelieu made his way into the room. 

“Did you eat?” she asked, heading towards the kitchen. 

“Yes.” The tepid cup of coffee he’s drunk three hours ago had two sugar packets and cream in it. 

“I’ll heat the Tupperware for you,” a decisive pop of the fridge door later, the microwave started preparing his dinner with a low wheeze. 

“Go to bed,” Richelieu walked into the kitchen, having changed into home clothes. “It’s school tomorrow.”

Milady stabbed the kettle button with her finger and plonked into a chair. 

“No, it’s not. It’s  _ Saturday _ .”

Richelieu sits opposite to her, a steaming Tupperware in front of him. If it was an hour earlier in the day and five more hours of sleep the night before, he’d put everything on a plate. But tonight he’d have to settle for a plastic container with a mush of ambiguous origin. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers. 

Milady makes tea in silence.

“Not a big deal,” she shrugs to conceal how much of a big deal it is. “You’re not actually sorry, so whatever.”

Richelieu chewed a piece of broccoli for longer than it was strictly necessary. Milady has always raised uncomfortable topics for conversations at the most inopportune moments. Like this, for example, when all he wants to do is to dump the dinner in the bin, fall on his bed, and pass out.

“The work is important,” he says.

Milady rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her tea. 

“Mhm.”

He feels his fingers tick at her nonchalant hum. Milady is the embodiment of innocence wrapped around rough edges ready to dissect him into shreds. And she does it without remorse.

“The work is important,” Richelieu repeats. 

“I heard you the first time.” She props her chin on her hand. “Louis threw a tantrum when you didn’t show up, I had to return our tickets instead of having some quality ‘me time’ since the day is cancelled. That is important too, I think.”

Richelieu gives in to his desires and dumps the contents of the Tupperware into the bin. He pours himself tea and returns to his sit, resolutely ignoring Milady’s judgemental stare. She hates it when someone wastes food. He hates that she ever had to think about it to a point when it became a tick, a compulsion she hasn’t truly got rid of.

He’s exhausted; he hasn’t slept properly in weeks; Louis isn’t pleased with him; Milady isn’t pleased with him; PM isn’t pleased with him. Nothing seems to go as planned at work, coming home feels like going to another shift. Nowhere Richelieu feels like enough, and he just wants to have a solid night of sleep, just once.

_ ‘I’m not in control,’ _ he realises. He’s been lured into a deceptive lull of mundane stability, when one day seamlessly slips into the other in a grey fog of routine. But the truth is, he is not in control. Сontrol has moved to North Pole for permanent residency. Richelieu, for the record, is still in Paris, France.

“I will do better,” he promises. “We can go to the movies tomorrow. Or on Wednesday.”

“Whatever,” Milady shrugs again. She stands and goes to the fridge to fish out a slightly crumpled box. The content has been slightly nibbled, as far as Richelieu can see through the plastic window. She ceremoniously puts it next to his mug, opened, rustles around for a pink monstrosity to stick right into the middle.

If Richelieu felt bad before, now he feels like a total arsehole.

“We could do it in the morning,” he feebly objected. “Have it for breakfast. Wait for Louis, you know.”

“Louis has waited for forty-seven minutes past his bedtime. I think it’s enough excitement for him for the weekend.”

The light flickered.

“We really don’t have to do this,” but Milady is ruthless. He, admittedly, totally deservs it.

“Happy birthday,” she checked with the watch on the wall. “You have ample eight minutes to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry.” Richelieu tries to catch her eyes, but she easily avoids his gaze. 

“Whatever,” one more time, and Richelieu will introduce a swear jar just for this word.

“I’ll do better.”

Milady purses her lips:  _ ‘You are completely missing the point.’ _ He is.

“I don’t really care,” and the downside slope of her shoulders tells him exactly how much she doesn’t care. “We made the cake. And we scheduled this weeks in advance. You don’t care and I don’t care even more.”

Two steps forward, one step back. That’s what they told him.

Over the years he has realised that what they tell you is bullshit.

One steps forward and seventy kilometers back, that’s what more close to reality.

“I’ll do better,” Richelieu repeats.

“Good night,” she says instead of a reply, putting the emptied mug into the sink. “Tomorrow’s the brunch thing at noon. Unless you work.”

She leaves and the door closes shut. The worst part is that there’s no dramatic slam, just a pointed and quiet click because Louis is asleep.

Richelieu sighs and leans back, banging his head against the wall. He counts down from sixty to zero. When he opens his eyes, the green lettering in a shaky but painstakingly piped cursive still stares accusingly at him. 

Then, he stands up and puts the cake away back to the fridge. He doesn’t have a heart to do anything other than that with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda feel guilty for not giving a shit about quality, because I swear I take my fanvideos more seriously than that, not that it matters, but like... I don't like those sloppy self-indulgent fics, but this fic is exactly that type of fic. Logic? Research? Grammar? What grammar, I don't know her. But if anything I've learnt over the years, if you don't like the stuff - just don't read it and do get down from your high horse. End of trash talk.  
> ugh, I don't know, why do I keep writing fanfiction, I'm not a ficwriter, I'm a fanvidder. I slap some videoclips together and hope for the best.

**Author's Note:**

> UPD: the title is from an amiable medley


End file.
